It was late May 2012; four days after the Battle of New York, I was back at my Central Park cart. The Chitauri invasion's chaos was fading—Queens' streets saw cleanup crews hauling debris, shattered windows being fixed, familiar taxi horns and kids' laughter filling the air. I opened Tony Stark's high-tech van cart; the döner skewer spun lazily, simits crisped in the oven, tea bubbled in the pot—war was over, but my work wasn't. Locals swarmed; aunties shouted, "Ali Usta, our hero!" kids bragged, "He's the guy who kicked Loki!" and tourists lined up for ice cream baklava. They called me the "heartfelt hero"—I blushed, embarrassed, but secretly loved it. Early morning, flipping köfte, a Ding! lit the system screen:
"Battle of New York Reward: Mortal Divine Body (Epic)."
"What the—?" I froze, spatula in hand, eyes wide. "What's this skill?" The description flashed:
"Mortal Divine Body (Epic): Physical endurance, strength, and regeneration beyond human limits—a godly essence in mortal form; wounds heal fast, stamina peaks."
The screen flickered, adding:
"Due to similar traits, Partial Super-Soldier Strength (Unique) has fused with Mortal Divine Body (Epic)."
"My super-soldier strength evolved? Divine body?" I gasped, stunned—a surge coursed through me; muscles firmer, breaths deeper, even my chest scar fainter. Then another reward:
"Tailoring (Expert): Supreme skill with fabric and thread—from repair to creation, every stitch a masterpiece; speed and precision united."
"What's this got to do with anything?" I laughed—system's surprise again, but maybe I'd stitch a hero suit someday, who knows?
Then a deep engine rumbled through Central Park's trees; a black SUV stopped near my cart at 59th Street. Doors opened, two familiar figures stepped out: Nick Fury and Phil Coulson. Fury, in his black trench coat, one eye piercing, exuded his usual gravitas—S.H.I.E.L.D.'s director, cool and resolute. Coulson, in a gray suit, held a slim file, a warm smile on his face—Fury's trusted agent, first Avengers Initiative coordinator. "Trouble brewing?" I thought, leaning on the cart—one-eyed eagle come calling. "Ali Usta," Fury said, voice stern but oddly soft, "we need to talk." Coulson extended a hand, "Phil Coulson, pleasure to meet you," he said, eyes kind—we'd never met face-to-face. I shook it, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Coulson," I said, "welcome—what can I get you? Tea? Coffee? Lahmacun?" Fury cut in, "Business," frowning slightly, but Coulson smiled, "I'll take a tea." Charming guy, his warmth plain.
"What you did in New York…" Fury began, hands on hips, "helping the Avengers, saving civilians, taking down Loki… We're grateful." He paused, exhaling, one eye studying me, "And I owe you an apology for snapping at you on the Helicarrier. Blamed you for Tony's dumb food order—unfair." I blinked—Nick Fury apologizing, rare for his steely nature; he seldom showed emotion. "Thank you," I said, scratching my head, "just did what I could, that's all." Coulson sipped tea, adding, "That kick to Loki…" he chuckled, "Fury's still laughing, you know? He's got a grudge!" Fury scowled, "Don't push it, Coulson," but a smirk flickered—Loki's Helicarrier stunt and Tesseract theft were personal for Fury; my fix amused him. "Thanks," I said, "just came to mind, what can I say?"
Fury nodded, "Did what you could' is an understatement," he said, "you brought unity—something we couldn't. The Avengers held together, and you were a link in that chain." Coulson added, "Really impressive," tea in hand, "kept your cool in war's heart." I paused, spatula in hand at my cart, deciding to speak from the heart—humble, but wise. "Gentlemen," I said, meeting their eyes, voice clear, "listen close. When thieves—call 'em alien invaders—threaten my home—Earth, I mean—and I don't step up, don't do the simplest things, like guiding civilians out of that warzone, and just stand there, it's no longer my home. It's my grave. If I've got no home to return to, where do I go?" My words hung; Central Park's breeze brushed my face, a 29-year-old vendor at his cart, spilling life's simplest, deepest truth. "Nailed that," I thought, smiling—felt like a philosopher for a second.
Coulson beamed—face full of warmth, eyes gleaming; he was always kind to his team, and my words seemed to hit deep. His look said, "This guy's special." Fury went quiet, one eye sizing me up, rubbing his chin, "Interesting metaphor…" he said, "but I get you. You're right—protecting your home's everyone's right." Admiration tinged his voice—the spy king, schooled by a kid; S.H.I.E.L.D.'s icy leader paused at my sincerity. "If you ever need help," Fury said, extending his hand, "find us. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s doors are open." I shook it, "Thanks, Mr. Fury," I grinned, "we're pals now!" Fury laughed—a loud, unlikely burst from the gruff man—"We'll see," he said, winking. Coulson set his cup down, "Great cart," he said, "we'll swing by—maybe grab baklava." They headed to the SUV, engine revved, and they vanished among the park's trees—a black shadow fading into green.
I leaned on the cart, gazing skyward—Nick Fury and Phil Coulson visiting, offering thanks and apologies… "Wow," I said, "life's wild." Meanwhile, on the Helicarrier, in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s office, Fury and Coulson were alone. Fury sat, pulling a file from his desk—labeled "Ali Usta." Natasha's protected dossier held all intel on me—from my Stark Expo sacrifice to the Helicarrier sherbet miracle, to my New York kick triumph. A photo slipped out; me at my cart, smiling, innocent, posing with a döner knife, eyes bright. Fury stared, one eye pensive, lips tight, "With all my power to control and deter," he mused, voice thoughtful, "I couldn't forge the unity a 29-year-old vendor did. Damn…" Coulson, passing, saw the file, "More surprises coming, boss," he said, smiling—Fury's right-hand man, and my tale moved them both. Fury nodded, closing the file—the photo of that guileless kid lingered on his desk, whispering something.
At the cart, as the sun set, I kept slicing döner—Mortal Divine Body (Epic) had me renewed, war's fatigue gone; with Tailoring (Expert), maybe I'd sew a uniform, even something for the Avengers, I thought, chuckling. "I protected my home," I mused, "it's my right." In Queens' streets, as war's traces faded, I was still Ali—living by heart, growing through humility. But this visit, these words, this bond… The adventure clearly wasn't over—Central Park's cool air carried tea's scent as I looked skyward, thinking, "Wonder what's next," with a grin.